War
by InsomniaGuy
Summary: Years after Third Impact, devastating new weapons emerge, plunging the world into utter chaos. Shinji Ikari has been trying to escape the ghosts of his past, but what will happen when he is forced into a war that could destroy what remains of his sanity?
1. Prologue

**Neon Genesis Evangelion**

**WAR**

Disclaimer: I do not own Neon Genesis Evangelion or any of its associated properties/materials. Evangelion belongs to A. and Gainax and any other companies associated with its creation and development.

* * *

A cold wind blew through the platform. Dusk was approaching fast, yet remnants of the sun's light remained in the sky. The distant echo of a train caught the attention of the lone figure on the platform. As the solitary figure turned to stare at the approaching dim lights in the distance, he could see the faint outline of a distant blue streak traveling at a speed that rivaled those of the trains that frequently passed through the station. A deep, weary sigh filled the air; he knew what was going to happen. The serene silence of the night air was then interrupted by the blue streak swerving around the corner and just missing the street light.

A solemn faced woman with unnatural purple hair, no doubt due to the effects of Second Impact, wearing the standard issue blood red uniform opened the driver's door, only to have it collide with the street light. Cursing at the new addition to the collection of dents that were found throughout the worn out machine's body, the obviously disgruntled driver from hell rose from the car and turned her gaze onto the still turned back of the soon to be passenger.

Back on the platform, his nostrils detected the smell of regrets and cheap, old, booze. Mentally counting the seconds until the train finally arrived, he finally decided to break the unnatural silence that filled the air.

"You found me." he stated the obvious. Before the purple haired wreck had a chance to respond with protests and what he knew were meaningless and empty words, he breathed out a quick and apathetic follow up.

"You can say what you want, but it'll be useless. I'm not changing my mind."

"You have to listen to me Shinji!" she began, her voice drowned in desperation. She paused after seeing him flinch at the use of his name. She let out a hefty sigh.

"I do realize that this past year has been a difficult one, but running away is hardly the answer. Shinji," he flinched again. "You need to learn how to face your problems. Damn it, you can just keep running away from everything! You have to let people in, whether you like it or not, and you're going to have to grow up sooner or later and realize that you can't keep us or the rest of the world out! This is a part of growing up, and it is going to happen." She was using her assertive leader tone, the tone she always used when she was giving her lectures that he received so many times since the day that unfortunate circumstances had caused them to meet.

"Shinji," her voice softened. "Just tell me what I could do to help you. _Please!_"

His monotone voice managed to drift to Misato's ears. "Misato, what has happened over the past two years can hardly be considered a normal part of growing up. There…there is nothing you or anyone else could do."

"The train from Urawa to Tokyo-3 is now entering the station. The train will soon be departing for Yokohama-2." announced a mechanical man. "When the train is entering the station, please keep all limbs and luggage behind the yellow line. If you are…" the man rambled on.

"Please." his voice finally managed some emotion. "Just go."

The metal beast had finally pulled into the station, causing a light breeze to cut through the air, blowing about stray plastic bags and scraps of paper while disheveling Shinji's dull brown hair. The doors were finally open, and the school uniform clad teenager began the final march towards the artificial light of the train's interior. The cocking of a firearm, a military issue Heckler & Koch USP to be exact, echoed through the platform and caused Shinji to freeze mid-stride. Misato took small shaky steps towards the wayward youth and spoke with a sharp and precise voice.

"I didn't want this to end like this, but I can't let you move any further Shinji Ikari." declared the women he once considered an impromptu mother. "On behalf of NERV and my duty as the Deputy Commander, I am placing you under arrest. Any further attempts to resist and I promise you, I won't hesitate to shoot."

"Misato, threatening me isn't going to work either. Please!" His voice was now turning quite desperate, "Just let me leave me alone."

"Damn it Shinji! At least face me! Why are you trying to hide from me?"

Stopping at the open doorway, Shinji's body shook with one massive sigh. It was akin the final shudder of life an ancient man would give before the light would disappear from his eyes. The teen's body lurched to the side and turned to face the woman who once gave him a place that he could finally call home. The unintentional drama ceased as his head finally moved and the two sets of eyes met. One pair was dull and lacked any life while the other was overwhelmed with regret and soon to be misplaced anger.

Misato's angst filled face contorted into a slight grimace upon looking at the boy's face for the first time in what seemed to be two weeks. The once shy face was now filled with a form of bitterness and held distinct attributes that were found in the cold and unnerving stare of the seemingly forgotten former Commander of NERV. The stand out feature was the deep, dark rings surrounding eyes that would occasionally stare off into oblivion. Over all, the budding insomniac looked like he had been through hell, and then some.

"Misato, please tell everyone that…" Shinji's face turned into a portrait of misery and lament over the thoughts of everyone that he knew he had caused pain to. He wanted to cry, but like before, nothing came. "Tell everyone that this is for the best." Shinji merely whispered out.

"Attention." It seemed the lifeless man decided to grace the platform with his cold mechanical voice once again. "The train will now be departing for Yokohama-2. Please board now if you have not already done so. If you have any luggage…"

His head turned away and faced the doorway again. Misato, who was brought back to the living by the mechanical voice, could do nothing but look on in dismay. She knew that she couldn't do it anyway. Despite what years of military training screamed at her to do, she wouldn't be able to actually bring herself to shoot him.

_Shit! How did it actually get to this_, she briefly pondered. Hell, between trying to rebuild what was left of NERV and the god-forsaken city while trying to take care of a seemingly shell shocked Asuka, she was never able to console Shinji and help him face whatever (what she assumed to be) horrors he witnessed during Thir….she still couldn't bring herself to say the name. A year since what some called Judgment Day, and she was still in a state of perpetual shock at what happened.

"Shinji, wait! You forgot something!" shouted Misato as she rummaged through the papers and files that would follow her home from work ever since she was promoted. Upon finding what she dubbed "Her Last Chance", she quickly ran onto the platform just as Shinji's backside disappeared into the belly of the train.

After hearing her voice for what could very well be the last time, his head slowly turned to see a fist being shoved out in front of the train's door. Shinji immediately diverted his eyes from the one object that held more painful memories than the monster he used to commandeer. It was his almost omnipresent SDAT player.

With one last sad gaze thrown at her, he quietly says, "You can let _her_ keep it." The doors shuddered and finally closed, seemingly ending the strained friendship between the two.

Misato stood on the platform, a cascade of emotions washing over her, but only one stood out. It was Anger. She reached for her holstered pistol and fires three rounds in an infantile attempt release the emotions that had been building over the last two weeks. Unfortunately, those three rounds found the perpetually damaged Renault's front right tire.

"Shit!" the crestfallen woman screamed and threw the German made weapon at the soon to be scrap metal of the car.

_If only we still had Section Two. If only I spent more time with him. If only he hadn't come here in the first place. If only…._ Misato's mind raced as she slowly grabbed her cell phone out of her jacket's pocket and hit speed dial.

The ringing stopped. "Well?" questioned the raspy voice of the new commander of NERV.

"I was…" Misato took a quick breathe to try and compose herself. " I was unable to retrieve the Third Child."

"Mmm…Very well." Misato didn't have to be there in person to know that the Commander was rubbing his head's temples to try to ward of an incoming headache. "I suppose it was bound to happen. I just wonder why it wasn't sooner…" Another sigh came through the speaker. "I'm sorry Misato, but I need you back here now. This event brings up certain information we must discuss."

"But!" The line went dead. Her free hand moved to her eyes to try and stop the waves of tears from flooding out.

"Kaji, what would you have done?"

* * *

The train lumbered along the tracks at a moderate speed. However, it was still not fast enough to help Shinji escape from everything that plagued his increasingly frail mind. Outside, the large corporate buildings and shopping centers of Tokyo-3, or at least the remains, were passing by. However, Shinji's eyes were focused on his two pale and sweaty palms.

The events of Third Impact were still remarkably fresh in his mind, it almost made it seem like it happened yesterday instead of the year that had passed by. Ever since what happened, he had not been able to get more than two hours of sleep. The nightmares involving those who had choose to not return to the material world as they once were and their screams of anguish at being denied perfection made sure that he remained awake. Now, rest only came when the exhaustion would simply become too much. Shinji's hands slowly approached his face until they met. He now realized the predicament he was in and was causing another migraine to flare up.

_Mother…what am I going to do now? I'm such a fool… _He had no home, no source of income, and only a few pairs of clothes. Shinji let out a muffled sob. His body lurched, and fell sideways onto the cold metal bench of the train's car. It was all just too much for him to bear all at once. As exhaustion began to overcome him once again, one thought lingered on the mind of the so called "Savior of the World".

_I should have kept the SDAT._

_

* * *

_

_To be continued._

A/N: I hope that you've enjoyed this little preview of what's to come. Honestly, I'm a little nervous myself. This is the first story that I've published and intend to continue. I'll be trying to update all summer, and we'll see where it goes from there. And before anyone asks, I do intend to reveal what happened during the first year after Third Impact. Trust me, it'll be in the later chapters.

Please take the time to review, or criticize, etc. I have a feeling that I've made more than a few mistakes, so if you find any, please point them out. If you have any questions, feel free to either email me or send me a message. I'm available all the time.

As a side note, I'm currently without a beta, so if you have any interests in helping me out or improving the story, please let me know. I'll take anyone.


	2. Paradise Lost

**Neon Genesis Evangelion**

**WAR**

**Chapter One - Paradise Lost**

Disclaimer: I do not own Neon Genesis Evangelion or any of its associated properties/materials. Evangelion belongs to A. and Gainax and any other companies associated with its creation and development.

* * *

The blazing orange orb was at the highest point in sky. In a few hours, the temperature would peak at around 123°F. Some people around the world still worshiped the sun, but most, including the pessimistic man that was standing in front of a wind beaten tent, tended to curse the fire ball, especially after what Second Impact did to the climates around the world. For example, Australia became a continent of ice, which led to the complete abandonment of the western and southern states, and South America was now under the constant threat of catastrophic storms, storms that decimated the Amazon Rainforest on a constant basis. However, besides a rise in temperatures and the environment morphing into something that resembled the Dust Bowl of the 1930s in the United States, the climate in Africa remained mostly unchanged.

The twenty-two year old pessimist went by the name Marcus Fluery, and he was, needless to say, pissed off. An enormous sandstorm had left its mark on his makeshift camp. The nearby dunes of sand held his now unreliable jeep in its clutches. His source of water was now contaminated with various types of dirt and sand and his edibles were all but gone. Yes, it was definitively another spectacular day in the Kalahari Desert.

Marcus Fluery was an extraordinarily generic man. Truly a person you could easily miss in a crowd. He lacked any muscles and was quite thin for a typical person of his age. His tan face was almost always obsessively kept shaved. He carried a pair shining blue eyes, eyes that were currently filled with anxiety. His shaggy light brown hair was covered with an improvised turban that was made using one of his pure white shirts. Almost one year in this desert hell hole and he still hadn't learned how to be prepared for anything and everything.

Marcus quickly dug his hand into the pocket of his light brown shorts while surveying the barren landscape. He eventually pulled out a brand new pack of cigarettes and a cheap green plastic lighter. With a cancer stick in mouth, he hesitated with the lighter. In the end, he spit the cigarette into the sand and dropped the package as well. He had picked up the deadly addiction two months ago, when the stress of his job and the guerrilla attacks got to him. Ever since then, he's had trouble quitting what he considered to be a repulsive habit.

He headed back to the tent that he managed to pitch only a day ago and shoved himself into the confined interior. Marcus grabbed his "Lucky Backpack" that he had used ever since enrolling at the University of Cambridge and dumped its contents out on his sand filled cot. The pessimist grabbed his cell phone out of the pile and a ragged piece of paper with hastily written down numbers.

"That bastard better answer his damn phone this time."

* * *

Badilini was leaning against the wall next to the entrance of the Gaborone General Hospital. When the smell of anesthetics ultimately gloomy mood of the medical center became too much, he would always come here for a well deserved break. Of course, his superiors always disagreed with him on the number of breaks he took, but who cared what they thought? He enjoyed the light breeze flowing through the lot as he took a long drag on his cigarette. It was hot as hell out and the hospital staff uniform he was wearing did not help one bit.

A loud sequence of beeps followed by an uncomfortable vibration came from the African's pants. Silently cursing, he put out the cigarette and pulled out the piece of hardware and took a glance at the caller id. A grin graced his face as he ended the merciless beeping by answering the phone.

"Well if it isn't my favorite sand man!" cried Badilini in sarcastic joy. "Have you decided whether or not you're going to grace the hospital with your godly presence today? "

"Damn it, don't start with me. I'm not to be trifled with today, so drop the pompous bullshit." The voice on the phone retaliated.

"Rather foul mouthed today, aren't we Marcus? Anyway, where on earth are you? We're short a few hands here and we could sure use some help from Mr. Bigshot."

"Okay, you know that one Bushman village you showed me last week? Yeah, well I went there yesterday with Kafil to see if they needed any medical aid, you know, cause of the guerrilla attacks. You never know who those blood thirsty bastards will attack. Well, it was getting late so I just set up camp near the village." Badilini knew what Marcus was trying to say before the words even left his mouth.

"Hold on a minute. You're trying to say you got stuck in that sandstorm last night?" interrupted the bald African translator. "What? You need me to pick you up!? Fluery, you know if I leave while I'm on the job and the higher ups find out like they did last time, my ass will be out on the streets!"

"Listen, I'll take all the blame, alright? Besides, you still owe me for what happened last week." It wasn't the best bargain ever struck, but what was Badilini going to do? Leave him to die in the desert?

"Yeah, fine." he gave in. "You're south of the village, right? Perfect. I'll leave right now." The twenty-five year old slammed his phone shut.

_That crazy fool is going to end up hurting or killing himself one of these days..._

* * *

The phone line went dead. Marcus gently closed his phone, shoved his face into his hands, and sighed. He looked at the date on his cell phone. It was January 12, 2024.

"It hasn't been long enough." He said in a melancholy tone. He looked to the sky for some reassurance, but found only vultures circling above him.

* * *

It was an hour past noon when the faded brown Jeep appeared on the horizon. It was an old pre-impact Jeep TJ Wrangler, and it was Badilini's pride and joy. At the sound of the distant engine, Marcus emerged from his tent and was embraced by the excruciatingly bright sun light. Removing the improvised turban from his head, Marcus started to put on his previously white shirt. Pulling the backpack's strap over his shoulder, he headed for the slowing Jeep.

The passenger door popped open and Marcus was greeted by a rush of frigid air and a grinning idiot. Before the translator could make any sly remarks, Marcus threw his backpack in his face and slammed the door shut.

"Hey now, is that any way to treat your savior?" asked the African as he shoved the backpack to the car floor. He stepped on the gas and caused the car to suddenly lurch forward. Unprepared for the movement, Marcus's forehead hit the dashboard. He stared at Badilini who was desperately trying to stifle the rising laughter.

"Sorry. I just have a lot of things on my mind today." Marcus started rubbing his aching forehead. Somehow, he knew this conversation was going to end in a head ache.

"Ah, don't worry about it. So, how were your house calls to the villages?" inquired the African.

"Well, nothing too severe this time. A few cases of AIDS, one or two wounded from running into some stray bullets." Marcus gave his review and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I just don't understand how they don't wither away under this heat."

"I guess if the whole race endures it for, say, for generations, it becomes second nature. That," another grin formed on his lips. "Or you could be some whiney foreigner who forgot their sunscreen." The driver was given his response in the form of a curt snort.

"I've got to say. Ever since I met you, you're cunning remarks have been losing their quality." The doctor of sorts tried to silence yawn. "So, what's been happening at the capital?"

"Well, let's just say that the last two days have been all kinds of hectic mayhem. Those guerrillas have been attacking a lot of cities that border Zimbabwe for their bullshit cause that no one knows about." Badilini paused to give a brief sigh. "The fire fights may have been sporadic, but that sure as hell didn't stop those damn tourists from jumping in the way of the gun fire. The hospitals been having a steady stream of the dead or dying ever since."

The pessimist in Marcus had decided to rear its ugly head. "Well, what can you expect? Humanity has of way of being truly foolish when it counts." Badilini stared at him for a moment before remembering to keep his eyes on the road.

Badilini let loose and obnoxiously loud groan and rolled his eyes, "What's wrong with you? I know how you feel about other people, but you've been acting like…like _this,_" he pointed to Marcus for effect "for the past few weeks!"

Marcus spared a glance at the driver, "Acting like what? Come on, you know I've been under pressure for the last week." He tried to avoid the pressing black eyes of the translator by looking at the worn away roof. He could still feel the intensity of the driver's stare juggle between the nonexistent road and his horribly sun burned back. "Like I said, I've got some things on my mind."

"But Marcus-"

He slammed his hands on the dashboard, "Can you just leave me alone? _Please?_" Just as predicted, a migraine had wormed its way into the doctor's skull. He was definitely not in the mood to be interrogated.

"Yeah, alright." Badilini let out a lighthearted sigh, "Well, I guess this is what happens when I try to make a pleasant conversation." Badilini took one last glance at the passenger. "You now have permission to brood." The driver was given no reaction. "But seriously, take a nap or something. You look like a mess."

Marcus reluctantly closed his eyes. Like the last few hundred times, he didn't know if he was going to fall asleep, but at this point, he would do anything to keep his unwanted companion quiet.

The doctor's mind went back to his years in college. He could have graduated at the top of the class at Cambridge, but it was likely that it would have drawn too much unnecessary attention his way. He had a difficult time learning that lesson, among other things when he entered high school. Marcus was still able to graduate with a decent enough final grades that would bring him no unneeded attention, but still allowed him to be easily hired when he handed over his _résumé _to the director of the Gaborone General Hospital. He remembered how he met Badilini on his first day on the job.

One year ago, what had appeared to be an underground natural gas pipeline exploded in the middle of downtown Gaborone, at least that's what was reported. Unfortunately for Marcus, this was also the day he started work. The entire hospital was flooded with the injured, dying, and their kin for two days, and Marcus couldn't speak a single word in Tswana, much less understand any. The locals, who were cold towards any foreigners, didn't help the situation either. Luckily his superiors caught on, and after a fair amount of tongue-lashing for lying on his résumé about knowing the language_, _something that would have gotten him fired if the staff didn't need help with all the patients, was paired up with the wise cracking translator.

A small smile formed on Marcus's face as he remembered how throughout the remainder of the day in the hospital, the tensions between the two soared. Whether it was in the operating room or in the lobby_, _Badilini would purposely give incorrect translations at the doctor's own expense while Marcus would retaliate with what he thought were scathing remarks. Looking back on it now, Marcus realized how pitiful they were. It was only when the skeleton crew came to take over that night did their odd friendship start.

Marcus was heading out to his rented out apartment that was conveniently located only a few blocks away from the hospital when he was confronted by a rather disgruntled man. He recognized the man as the companion of a woman who had lost her life on the operating table due to massive internal bleeding and a collapsed lung. Not understanding the words that the man was spitting out at him, he apologized numerous times for not being able to do more to save what Marcus assumed to be his friend, and quickly tried to escape the blubbering local. That is, until the delirious man pulled a gun on him.

Marcus, who was drawing on previous experiences with guns being pulled on him, slowly approached the gun-wielding man while trying to soothe him with words. However, this was all abandoned the second the man cocked the gun. Expecting the worst, Marcus had closed his eyes and was grimly thankful that he was still next to the hospital. A gunshot rang through the night air, overcoming the distant sound of late night traffic and the sirens of an ambulance. The doctor braced himself for what he assumed was going to be a torrent of excruciating pain radiating from any point on his body, yet no such thing happened.

Marcus had slowly opened his eyes to see the gun-wielding maniac's eyes opened wide in shock and the small gun dropping to the ground. A bullet had pierced the man's heart, and the smoking gun was held by none other than Badilini, who was standing at the automatic doors to the hospital. Looking back on that event, Marcus was relatively shocked at Badilini's marksmanship. He knew that a novice couldn't have been able to hit a man's heart from the distance and angle that Badilini was at. Hell, he was even being evasive when he had asked him why he was carrying a gun.

"In case situations like this somehow manage to happen." Badilini had answered. Marcus was too shocked at the time to question him further, but looking back on it now, he was sure that the African was lying to his face.

The two had quickly agreed to keep quiet about what had happened. They dragged the limped body into the lobby of the hospital and let one of the skeleton crew doctors handle it from there. Marcus had felt guilty about the man dying ever since then. However, the doctor was also eternally grateful for Badilini saving his life. The two seemed to have formed a bond that people could only have after going through a life or death situation.

Marcus lightly snorted at the thought. He was quite sure that was how the translator had that was the kind of friendship the two had. To be honest, Marcus only stuck around because he felt like he was in debt. He never really enjoyed being in the presence of the man. Whenever he was around, it felt as if death was sure to follow.

Hours started to seem like minutes to Marcus's half awake brain. His mind turned into a theater and he was sitting in the front row, viewing the memories of past events. Eventually, the strain of viewing some of the memories became too much. The doctor's mind soon started to collapse into sleep due to the exhaustion, and the metaphorical theater disappeared. Unfortunately, Marcus was ill-prepared for the barrage of images his sleep would bring.

* * *

A startled yell tore through the silence of the parking lot. His head hit the rough roof of the aging Jeep. Letting out a steady stream of curses, Marcus unsuccessfully tried to rub the newly forming bump on his head away. His heart was pounding harder than it had for years; it felt like it was on the verge of bursting. He remembered the last fleeting moments of his nightmare. Fire was everywhere; bodies littered the streets and blood rained from the sky. In the final moment, there was a set of soulless eye staring into his very soul.

Wiping the cold sweat from his face with his soiled shirt, he pulls out his cell phone and glances at the time. His eyes are greeted with a light blue 9:36 PM. In disbelief, Marcus throws himself back into the leather seat, his hands embracing his still sweaty face.

_You've got to be shitting me! He just left me in the car, didn't even bother the wake me up, the selfish jerk! _Marcus was beginning another mental tirade. He was supposed to report to the administrator on the conditions of the tribes at _three_. If anything, that man was obsessed with punctuality.

_Screw it, I'll just report to him tomorrow. Better to just let him cool off before even getting in his line sight. Hopefully he'll be more reasonable by then…_Sadly, Marcus didn't realize how faulty his logic was. Grabbing his backpack, the doctor jumped out of the Jeep and began heading away from the hospital, only to run into the cause of his latest dilemma.

_"_And just where the Sam Hill have you been all day, Mr. Fluery?" asked Mr_. _Pongwa, otherwise known as the administrator, in a tone that simply demanded respect.

"You've got to be shitting me!'' mumbled Marcus as he turned to face the approaching harbinger of doom who was wearing a dull gray suit and polka dot tie that almost managed to complement his attire. Yes, he was definitively obsessed with punctuality. His anger showed that much.

"It's almost ten o' clock at night, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of you and your report all day! Give me one damn reason why I shouldn't fire your ass right here!" yelled the ranting fifty year old.

"S-sir, believe me when I say this isn't my fault. I was stuck in the sandstorm, and my car wouldn't work so I had to call for help and, well you know?" stuttered Marcus in a weak voice.

"What sandstorm? I didn't hear a sandstorm last night. Ugh, so help me god, if this is another one of your fake excuse stories!" screamed the African. Obviously the board meeting that was held today didn't go very well for the aging man.

"If you don't believe me, you can go ask Badilini, sir. He was the one who brought me back." The doctor's meek voice interrupted the man's tirade. The administrator's response was a sarcastic laugh.

"Ha! I bet he helped you cook up that little story." He coughed into his hand, as if to tell himself to move on. "Regardless, I still want your report on my desk tomorrow. I also think it's time we review your résumé and have a little discussion about your future here. Expect to be called into my office tomorrow." The stocky man gave Marcus one last disapproving look over, turned on his heels, and headed back to the entrance.

Marcus, currently a stuttering wreck remained glued to his position. After all, it did seem like he would be fired. He had the credentials to work at the biggest and arguably the busiest hospital in all of Botswana, but he knew that wouldn't matter to anyone if the person who decided your fate was as paranoid and distrustful as Pongwa was. Marcus composed himself and continued to walk back to his apartment, while mentally berating himself for freezing up.

**

* * *

**

At around 10:30 p.m., the faint clicking of metal on the doorknob invaded the silent darkness of the small apartment. The fading green door finally shuttered and slammed open. A weathered old backpack flew through the doorway, followed by an exasperated man. The latter of the two landed fell forward and landed face down on the laughably small bed. Marcus temporarily raised his head from the sea of blankets in order to survey his apartment. After all, this area was well known for its break-ins.

The one room apartment was a claustrophobe's worst nightmare. The room was slightly larger than an oversized closet, forcing the only furniture in the room to be the bare essentials found in any normal home. A bed (luckily, it was able to fold up into the wall to make extra space), small toilet, bathtub, toaster oven, and a miniature refrigerator were the only things found in the room. There was no space for anything of entertainment or pleasure. However, Marcus was thankful that the walls were thick enough to keep any noise coming from the rambunctious neighbors out of the apartment.

Laying his head back down, Marcus rolled unto his back and stared at his ceiling. He contemplated on what he was going to do next. He had run out of his prescription sleep pills, so even if he did manage to fall asleep, it would end like it did back in Badilini's jeep.

He felt too tired to go explore the bustling city, but he knew that was just another lame excuse. Ever since he first came to Africa, he always felt uncomfortable mingling with the locals, or doing anything really. He just felt so out of place. Well, that and he still hadn't completely learned their native language.

He briefly considered calling his old friends from college, but he knew that they had already forgotten about him by now. Maybe he could chat up his old ex-girlfriend? Marcus hastily rubbed his eyes at the thought. He realized how desperate he was starting to become if he actually considered calling…_her_.

_Man, I haven't felt this lonely since high school. Guess work has taken up so much of my personal time that I don't really get a chance to be alone with my feelings…this sucks! _Concluded the doctor as he stared at the ceiling.

_Guess I'll just count the holes in the ceiling tile until I pass out._ He let out a small laugh at the pitiful state he was in. Marcus moved to set his alarm clock to seven o' clock, while announcing out loud, "I really need to get a book or some sort of hobby."

**

* * *

**

His fluttering eyes opened as he shot out of his bed, and directly into the steel leg of his bathtub. Loudly cursing (and mentally praising the thickness of the walls) he nursed his foot. Bewildered as to what woke him up, he checked the clock. Illuminating the room with its red digits, the clock proudly displayed 2:49 a.m.

Marcus unleashed a groan. _Crap, this early? I was actually having some peaceful sleep this time._ He tried to remember what he was doing last and looked to the ceiling. 145,986 holes he had counted before passing out. A distant rumble caught the man's ear. Marcus followed the sound, stumbling over his backpack and suitcase that was used as a dresser in an attempt to conserve space. His search brought him to the eastern corner of the room.

Pressing his ear against the slightly dented wall, he was able to distinguish the sound, but it lead to a puzzled look forming on his face. _What the hell? Is that really gunfire?_ His face slowly morphed from confusion to horror when it finally dawned on him what this could mean. Still wearing the sweaty and somewhat sandy clothes and shoes from yesterday, Marcus slammed the door open and rushed out to the balcony's railing. "Oh my god…"

His gaze was met with the skyline of Gaborone set ablaze. It seemed to be raining hellfire as Marcus walked down the balcony steps and out onto the street. The distant sound of gunfire in the streets and the faint pops of small explosions rang in his years like a church bell. He was so hypnotized by the sight of destruction and the sounds of war that he almost didn't notice the rumbling in his pocket.

Fumbling through his pants pocket, he finally grabs the violently shaking piece of plastic and answers it, hoping it will be someone who could tell him what the hell was going on.

"Marcus!?" yelled the voice on the other line, static interfering periodically. Even with the static and feedback, Marcus instantly recognized the husky voice of the African translator.

"Badilini, what's going on? I woke up at my apartment and…and I have no clue what going on! The city's burning alive, and I'm hearing gunshots and explosions. Damn it, I can hear the screams-" Stuttered the panicking man, running his fingers through his hair.

"Sorry, but you need to shut up right now and let me do the talking!" the African's yell caused Marcus to jump. "It's those damn guerrillas! We were hit with artillery or a missile. Those rats crawled out of the sewers for god's sake!" Badilini bellowed over the static and gunfire.

"Yeah, well that explains all the manhole covers lying about…" confirmed Marcus as he took a moment to look at the street. "Man, where are you and how bad is it?"

Either a large discharge of static or an explosion had drowned out the man's words, leaving the phone dead for a handful of tension filled seconds. "I……street…It's horrible…don't bother…hospital…safety." Marcus's eyes widened as a new wave of panic came over him.

"You're breaking up! I can't hear a single damn thing you're saying!" he screamed into the phone. After a few seconds of silence, Badilini's voice finally prevailed over the static.

"Don't move a single inch, Fluery! I'm warning you! I'll try…apartment…" The line dies as an explosion levels a massive office building, a few streets, and presumably hundreds of lives in the business district right before his eyes. The cell phone drops from his hand and breaks into two on the bullet chipped cement. Not knowing what to do, Marcus ran.

**

* * *

**

He had no destination in mind, paid no heed to any obstacles in his way, and ignored his surroundings. Yet, he still ended up at the hospital, and the sight made him want to vomit. The whole area was a warzone that was currently abandoned by the living. The hospital itself was a flaming wreck. Strong metal roofs were caved in and whole sections of concrete wall were missing. Marcus slowly walked through the parking lot, taking in the gruesome site. Since he was last here, the entire lot was turned into a graveyard with cars as tombstones for the lifeless bodies of the civilians and fighters alike. This was the same scene everywhere he went. With every dead body, Marcus could feel himself become hollow.

Now running away from the hospital with a newly acquired med kit that he picked out of the cold hands of a now silent co-worker under his arm, his lungs and legs giving off dull aches from the constant running, he headed deeper into the city. His inner doctor was telling him that there were most likely injured human beings that were caught in the fighting that needed his help. Running past nameless streets, he started to recognize the shops surrounding him. He was in the upper class shopping district and was most likely heading towards the capital building.

The sound of gunfire drifted through the air as Marcus ran past the flaming cars, looted stores, and collapsing infrastructure. Suddenly, the fighting in the streets was drowned out by a succession of explosions. It had seemed like an earthquake had suddenly struck the area, causing Marcus to lose his footing fall right into the window of a pillaged boutique. He landed in the pile of broken glass and managed to have a shard of glass wedge itself into his bare flesh on his leg. Clutching his injured limb, he couldn't help but scream out in an outburst of pain and anger.

"God damn it! Why the hell are they using artillery?! Or are they trying bombing us to death?" he cried out in an exasperated voice. Marcus managed to crawl out of the once posh store and back out onto the sidewalk. It seemed to be raining glass from the massacred buildings above his head. Once the cascade stopped, Marcus carefully picked himself off of the ground, making sure not to move his out of commission leg, and stumbled out into the street.

With the better vantage point, Marcus was able to look into the skyline. Expecting to see flaming craters burrowed into the side of the larger buildings in the district, he instead saw the mind numbing answer to his earlier question.

A monstrosity of unparallel size was perched on one of the larger buildings in the city, one black hand grabbing the tip of the spear jutting out of the roof, while the other was deeply buried into the tower itself. The creature seemed to be a sick parody of human life. Humanoid in shape, with a pair of long legs and slithering arms, the creature was plagued with seemingly random spikes shooting out of its limbs and was colored a sickening green. Its head was grotesque; long and flat like a hammerhead's with two cold lifeless eyes at each end. Large wings that were as black as the night itself protruded from its warped back, giving the monster the appearance of gargoyle.

Marcus let out a gargled scream, his body shaking in terror and pain. Miraculously, the doctor managed to pull himself out of his petrified state and stumbled backwards with his limp hindering his every movement. The perched gargoyle's eye focused on the erratic movement caused by Marcus, or perhaps it was staring ahead at a distant threat. Either way, Marcus felt his legs lock up under the scrutinizing stare; he tumbled head over heels onto the cracked cement.

The beast's mouth split open, revealing needle like teeth stained yellow. A banshee's wail emanated the grinning mouth as the thick beating of the black wings created gale force winds. The giant thing took off to the east in search of more prey, the opposite direction of Marcus, though that information didn't help him one bit. As the winged creature left his sight, the gunfire and explosions began anew.

Marcus suddenly gripped his head in pain. The dull pain from another head ache had dramatically increased tenfold. It was a simple memory. He could flashes of it in his head.

A smile and the distinct smell of blood. A flash of red and large unnatural green eyes. Then the floodgates opened up.

The sight of the monster had caused something to snap within his mind. Years of unknowingly repressed memories exploded before his eyes, the sudden rush of information made it feel as if his head was in a constantly tightening vice grip.

Gasping at the mental and physical pain as the torrent of memories flooded his head, Marcus pulled himself back up thanks to the support of a ruined truck. He grabbed the destroyed driver's seat and squeezed as hard as he could while trying to scream the pain away. Then as suddenly as it came, the flow of memories stopped. Once again panicking, he looked around for some way to get out of the area fast. _How am I going to get out of here with that damn glass sticking out of my leg!_

Leaning against the car, he quickly decided to get rid of his problem and pulled sharply on the glass shard. While not the most intelligent idea, the glass was successfully pulled out of his flesh, and that's all that mattered to his scattered mind. The adrenaline coursing through his body numbed the pain as he set off running to who knows where.

_I can't be near here anymore! I have to get the hell out of here right now!_ Marcus took started to run only a few paces when a man bum rushed Marcus from the parallel street and sent him sprawling on the ground. Slowly getting up and shaking only slightly, Marcus attempted to turn around when the cocking of gun behind him caused his body to petrify once again. Assuming it was a stray looter, Marcus slowly reached for his wallet when a voice sent his ailing head into a tailspin.

"You bastard, I've been looking all over this hell hole for you!" screamed the husky voice of the assailant. His eyes widened in shock, he slowly turned around to validate what his mind already knew.

"Badilini?" the African was coated in a layer of sweat and various cuts and wounds littered his skin. His face was contorted in anger, but a small smile of satisfaction was still present. At least, that's what it looked like to Marcus right before the man brought the cold, unforgiving pistol down on his head. His vision was lit up with dancing stars and high pitched whine invaded his ears. Even though his senses were in total chaos, he could still make out the hysterical look plastered upon the African's face.

"Don't you dare address me heathen! You haven't the slightest idea of how long I've been waiting for this moment and I'm not going to _you_ have to screw it up!" the man continued to scream, shaking all the while from what seemed to be moderated blood lose. Not only was Marcus confused at the turn of events, but disorientation clouded his senses. Whether it caused by the blow to the head or the rush of once sealed away memories returning he did not know, but only one thing was clear. Badilini had lost his mind.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I said shut up!" Badilini kicked Marcus in the ribs hard enough for him to cry out in pain. The unstable man was sure that he heard the satisfying sound of a rib snapping. "Oh my." the translator chuckled. "All this excitement has got me shaking!" He paced around the quivering form of Marcus on the street, a steady drip of blood spilled out of the doctor's mouth onto the street.

"To answer you earlier question, my good man, yes," he dramatically bowed, "It is me! Your good friend the translator! The man who was born and raised in Africa, the man who has no family because of what happened seven years ago, the man who had lost all his friends in the chaos, the man who will kill you, you sniveling swine!" Marcus was now starting to understand why he had a gun held to his head.

"I…I don't know what…you're talking about" the waves of pain convulsed the doctor's speech. He should have kept his mouth shut.

The maddened African picked Marcus up by the collar of his tattered shirt and dragged him. His back was brutally slammed against the driver's door of a ruined car. Badilini stuck his face in front of Marcus, who was drifting in and out of consciousness.

"YOU may think that a simple name change can make your past disappear and erase everything you've done to destabilize the world," Badilini grabbed his chin, the gun was being held to his cracked rib. "But you can't keep it hidden from me, _Shinji Ikari_. I still remember Third Impact!"

His eyes widened not in pain, but in horror at mention of a name he had not heard for years. He stared at Badilini with a dumbfounded look fixed onto his face. This only made the man's smirk grow as he raised the unknown pistol and prepared to fire in three…two…one.

A loud pop joined the other noises of war in the night air as a bullet tore through flesh. Blood splattered his unprotected face. The gun dropped as Badilini collapsed on the street. Faint shouting of words spoken in Tswana were heard echoing through the ruins of the buildings as the camouflaged sniper ran from his perch to alert his brothers in arms. His ears had translated "Loyalist scum."

Once it registered in ailing man's mind that the fast approaching machine gun wielding agents of anarchy were talking about him, the adrenaline kicked in once again. By the time the guerrillas arrived at the scene, all that remained of Marcus was his blood on the sidewalk.

He was limping aimlessly, trying to find an exit in the hellish maze. His torso was numb from the shockwaves of pain that would take hold of him periodically due to the kick in the ribs. His mind was about ready to shut down from exhaustion and he couldn't really make a rational decision because of it. Instead, Marcus had to rely on instinct. And right now, it was telling him to head for the shouting figure that wasn't trying to spill more of his blood.

Upon closer inspection, his weary eyes discovered it was another generic soldier that was sent into the slaughter and managed to survive. He was obviously looking for civilians to rescue for some glory. The soldier roughly grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him into what seemed to a randomly chosen direction. The words that came out of the leading man's mouth barely registered, but he was still able to decipher a few key words. The soldier was babbling about a total evacuation, an unknown enemy weapon, and Contingency Plan R.E.D.

As they rounded the next corner, which was heavily guarded by soldiers who were a dime a dozen in the area, the roar of helicopter blades buried all other sounds as they approached a small landing pad surrounded by tents that were set up as a mandatory war rooms. Each one was filled with military personal bickering over the eminent defeat at the hands of the monstrous gargoyle.

As they made it to the air pad, an Atlas OryxMKII was prepared to depart, its blades already spinning furiously. Marcus was quickly shoved aboard by the soldier; he probably had better things to do. While being pulled aboard by two medical personal, the tell tale scream of a JAS 39 Gripen was heard above. The situation must have been FUBAR if the SAAF were called in. Once everyone on board was strapped in, the helicopter began gaining altitude. In only seconds, the soldiers within the small city of tents on the ground began losing size.

Now somewhat nauseous because of the quick ascent, Marcus had planted his face on the window, his eyes gazing into the streets of the once proud city. Small explosion of light coming from the muzzle of guns lit up the streets. In the distance, the damned gargoyle creature was still wrecking havoc upon the city. The scene looked like a modern day Godzilla film. The roar of the engines was heard again as five grey harbingers of death tour across the sky above, approaching the sick green abomination. Suddenly, the five fighters separated from their flight path and spiraled into different directions. The crew within the helicopter stopped their bickering, anxious to see what would happen next. For only seconds, all remained still.

A bright explosion of energy, heat, and light consumed the entire city. Its only resistance was an astonishing barrier of orange light that was erected at the last minute. Within the unnatural barrier was the beast itself. It was appearing to keep the orange barrier active. However, this proved to be only a temporary hindrance when the force field like projection started to collapse inwards, thus simulating an implosion. In a matter of seconds the shield was punctured and the gargoyle's fate was sealed. The unholy creature was suffered the same fate as its surroundings. It was assimilated by the light, leaving behind only its shrill screams of death.

All of this took place right before Marcus. The shock wave of the catastrophic explosion only lightly shook the transport helicopter, but it was enough to wake him from his stupor. He fell back into his seat. Marcus couldn't believe what just happened. Hundreds of thousands lives were just extinguished, and all he could do was just watch.

Wiping the accumulating sweat off his forehead, Marcus brought his hand down to inspect it. There was something on it from wiping his face. _Blood_. It was Badilini's blood. When the realization hit, the room started to spin violently. The crew members were all looking at him. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. Soon, his sight began to dim as he slowly slipped out of reality.

**

* * *

**

The blazing orange orb was in the cloudless sky once again. It's light shining upon the utter destruction and carnage that took place before dawn. The bomb that was dropped was experimental. Based off of the blueprints of N2 Mines, which gained popularity for its use in Tokyo-3, the unoriginally named NX Bomb was designed to maximize the massive destruction and minimize the use of radiation. The effects were clear. Once one of the world's greatest success stories, "Gabs," as the locals would call it, was now a ghost town haunted by melted steel and the frames of the once impressive infrastructure. The only traces of bodies were large black shadows stained into wherever the victim had died.

It was now around seven o' clock, and those who had fled were now returning to the pile of rubble. The military was quick to remobilize and set up bases and refugee camps around the devastated city. The president of Botswana was among the first to flee and was the last to return. Holding out in the camp set up within the remains of the capital building, the president had declared a state of national emergency and requested help from all neighboring countries. A response had yet to be seen.

It was within this very refugee camp where Fluery had found himself reminiscing over everything that had happened.

Upon passing out, the military medics on hand were keen enough to treat him inside the transport. Ripping open the shirt, they discovered massive bruising and a slight rib fracture along one of his false ribs. All they were able to do was wrap him in the proper bandages and dose him with an unknown analgesic. After waking up, one of the medics told him how lucky he was to not have developed flail chest. They also wanted to keep an eye on him for any signs of a concussion.

Marcus leaned against a twisted and deformed railing gazing over the already starting efforts to rebuild. He was still distant from the waking world, too consumed by the thoughts running through his head. What he saw, what he heard; it was a lot to take in all at once.

_Jesus…There is no doubt that thing was an…Evangelion. _He was certain of that much. However, he was troubled at the idea of more Evas being produced. _More importantly, how did those rebels get their putrid little hands on one? The productions should have stopped years ago…_

Memories of the past had resurfaced due to everything that happened. Memories he thought he had successfully repressed ever since graduating from high school. This led him to the one thing he absolutely did not want to think about. His true identity.

He hadn't been known as Shinji Ikari since 2016. After Third Impact, his name became a sort of taboo. When people learned what his name was, their attitude would turn bitter. It was probably because of how he had denied all of them the so-called paradise that they only briefly glimpsed during Third Impact. Most people downright hated Shinji Ikari, some countries even had gone far enough to name him a criminal or public enemy #1. He knew that if he was going to forget about everything that happened to him or even make it in the world, he would have to become someone else. Marcus Fluery became an opportunity to reinvent himself and his personality. Marcus Fluery and Shinji Ikari became two entirely different personalities. But now someone knew who he really was.

_Badilini…_ he must have snapped because of all the fighting, but that still didn't give a reasonable explanation as to how he was able to discover his forgotten identity as the Third Child. Yes, he was dead. Shot by a sniper and incinerated by the bomb, but he still found out who he was. And if he was able to do it, who says whether or not anyone else could be able to as well? Yes, it was somewhat paranoid, but that didn't make it any less true.

Worst of all was the memories of a lost Tokyo-3 and the desperate war that was held there. It seemed that seeing the Eva and hearing his old name unlocked his mental block on them. He didn't know how much he actually remembered, but what was unearthed was definitively most of them. He ran a quivering hand through his hair. Everything he planned on doing was ruined. He had no place to go, no job, and his favorite shirt was ripped asunder by the medics and the fighting in the city.

Shinji was so consumed by his inner turmoil that he didn't notice the two approaching figures. A loud impatient cough managed to bring him back to reality. He looked over his soldier to stare at the two ridiculously out place men. Two clean-cut men in black suits complete with sunglasses to hide their identities stared back at his frail form. It seemed like they expected him to look a bit more impressive.

The blonde haired man stepped forward while his bald counterpart was busy confirming something into his earpiece. "I assume you are Marcus Fluery." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Y-yeah, of course I am! What can I help you with?" The two men looked at each other for confirmation. Blondie fished around his back pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. Letting one of the black flaps drop, he showed the contents of the wallet to Shinji. To say that he was shocked was an understatement.

It was an organization I.D., simple in design. The black and red logo contained the now infamous halved fig leaf and a quote from a long forgotten poem. "God's In His Heaven... All's Right With The World."

"Shinji Ikari, you are being detained under the direct orders of the Commander of Nerv."

* * *

_To be continued._

A/N: Well, that's it for chapter one. I hope you've enjoyed reading it more than I than enjoyed writing it. Seriously, I could have had this out earlier if it wasn't for writer's block. I must have redone this chapter five or six times. It would always feel like I'm rushing it or going to slow. I think I have the right balance with this version. I also have the feeling that most of you saw the twist coming at the end, but I didn't really see a way around that.

Anyway, please take the time to review, or criticize, etc. I have a feeling that I've made more than a few mistakes. So if you find any, please point them out sp I can fix them right away. If you have any questions, feel free to either email me or send me a message. Usually I'm available all the time, but I won't be between July 11 and July 17, but don't let that stop you from trying to contact me.

As a side note, I'm still without a beta. So if you have any interests in helping me out or improving the story, please let me know. I'll take anyone.


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